


your heart strings that play soft and low

by kysnv



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing, cameos from the others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kysnv/pseuds/kysnv
Summary: In a kitchen in a safehouse in an undisclosed location somewhere, Nicky cooks dinner, Joe falls in love again for the trillionth time, and the radio is playing their song (one of them) (they have a lot of songs).
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 212





	your heart strings that play soft and low

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from Moondance but this fic was inspired by the three days I spent listening to Unchained Melody on repeat thinking about Joe and Nicky, so that’s the song I was thinking of while I was writing this. tbh I think the lyrics suit Andy and Quynh better but I think Joe and Nicky would really like the song too, hence the fic.

Nicky is finishing off a salad to go with dinner, soft music playing from a battered radio almost as old as the safehouse, when Joe wanders into the kitchen to get a drink, half drawn by his thirst and half by the smells and music wafting through the house. The fridge hums when he opens it, cool air washing over him.

“Need help with anything?” he asks as he fills a glass with water. Condensation from the jug wets his hands, one of which still has a smear of charcoal despite Joe having just washed up in the bathroom. He’s been lost in his sketchbook all afternoon.

Nicky barely glances up. “You can taste the sauce for me,” he offers.

Joe dries his hands on the kitchen towel slung over Nicky’s shoulder, then dips a spoon into the marinara simmering on the stove. It’s well balanced and smooth and brimming with the taste of garlic and herbs, tomatoes and capers.

He hums appreciatively. “It’s good,” he says, tempted to go in for another taste, but he settles for sucking the spoon clean instead.

“Does it need anything?”

Joe rubs a hand over his beard. “It needs to be in my stomach,” he decides, and revels in Nicky’s soft snort of laughter.

As Joe replaces the water jug back in the fridge, the last song on the radio finishes and another one begins. It’s soft and crooning and familiar, and Nicky raises the volume a touch before going back to what he was doing, knife stroking across the vegetables on the cutting board with centuries of well-practiced ease. It’s not dissimilar to him sharpening his longsword, or taking Joe apart in bed, or lying in wait with his rifle propped at his shoulder and his attention trained down the scope.

Leaning against the sink, sipping his water, Joe watches him mouth along to a few lyrics with the barest movements of his lips.

Vermicelli noodles wait on the counter to be cooked at the last moment. Ciabatta is toasting in the oven, stuffed with garlic and olive oil. An opened bottle of wine, some of which Nicky must have used for the marinara, sits by the stove, and as happens on occasion – these singular occasions when the ordinariness of life slips away and the truth underneath is right there to be felt, and sometimes captured in paint or charcoal – Joe is struck by the breadth of his love for this man. It crashes into him and out of him and around him, and is utterly relentless.

Nicky has a speck of basil or some other herb on the jut of his thumb. Joe _loves_ him.

He must realize he’s being watched because he glances up, gaze flickering over Joe. “Okay?”

They’re alone in the safehouse.

By way of an answer, Joe sets his glass down and moves closer. He skims a hand over Nicky’s hip, leaning across him to turn the music up even more. Wise to him now, amused and obliging, Nicky removes the kitchen towel from his shoulder and lets Joe pull him away from the counter and the salad.

Nicky’s palm is warm in his as their hands wrap around each other. Like remembering an old friend, their other hands find their rests easily, Joe’s on Nicky's shoulder blade and Nicky’s arm around his waist, and they’re already moving, swaying with the music’s crooning cadence.

Their faces are so close Joe can see the flecks of brown in Nicky’s pale eyes, can feel his breath, can smell his deodorant.

“Incurable,” Nicky murmurs in that beautiful lilting accent of his.

It makes Joe wants to kiss him, but he just touches their foreheads together, and they stay like that, slow dancing, moving as one. Nicky’s breath is his breath, his hands are Joe’s hands. His movements are Joe’s; these movements are theirs.

Thumbs caress. Their heads turn slightly so their temples press together. Their arms wrap further around each other, close enough that their chests and stomachs and hips touch through their clothes. And ever on – the music.

Joe basks in it all, in his love for Nicky, in Nicky’s love for him, in this life they have. He wishes this moment would last forever. It feels like it could. It feels like they could defy time to make it happen, like they defied death at the beginning of it all.

But before long the song winds down to a close. They keep swaying even as an ad starts, and Nicky pulls back a little to look at him, gaze tracing Joe’s eyes, cheeks, lips.

They kiss. It's firm and sure, mouths moving against each other, and Nicky’s fingers come up to Joe’s jaw, Joe’s hand gravitating to Nicky’s hip, and the taste of _Nicky_ pulls him in, and the feel of him, too, and the wonder of him.

They hear the front door open into the other room, voices and footsteps filling the house.

“Oh my God, that smells so good,” comes Nile’s voice.

Nicky breaks off the kiss and Joe sighs, but neither of them moves to separate. Joe kisses the basil from Nicky's thumb. Nicky wipes the charcoal from Joe's hand. They hear Booker and Quynh and Nile talking back and forth, but Joe can’t make out what they’re saying over the radio. Andy appears in the doorway to the kitchen to dump a small bag of groceries on the counter – dessert, probably.

There’s a bright warmth in her at the sight of them, wrapped up in each other in the middle of the kitchen. “Having fun?”

“We were,” Joe says, mock glaring at her over Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky kisses him again, and this is good, this is a nice distraction.

Andy laughs at them as they kiss, and then the other three are beside her – “Get a room, guys,” Booker teases.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Nicky counters, and he and Joe don’t let go of each other until it’s time to check on the ciabatta.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://kysnv.tumblr.com/)


End file.
